The Owl King
by MidnightCat99
Summary: Sarah just wanted her book back. How could she have foreseen the chaos engendered by her bargain with that ridiculous owl? A modern Labyrinthian retelling of "The Frog Prince."
1. Prologue

**Title:** The Owl King

**Author: **MidnightCat99

**Summary:** Sarah just wanted her book back. How could she have foreseen the chaos engendered by her bargain with that ridiculous owl? A modern Labyrinthian retelling of "The Frog Prince."

**Rating**: K+

**Author's Note:** I'm going to try to update this frequently, but it really depends on how busy I am with schoolwork. This will probably be a pretty short story, but I may make it longer if I'm struck by any particularly good ideas.

**Disclaimer: **I own neither Labyrinth nor "The Frog Prince."

* * *

**Prologue**

**_A_**ll I wanted was to get my book back. How could I have known making that bargain with that ridiculous owl would engender such chaos? I _couldn't_ have known, so there. I'm not responsible for any of this. Just so you know.

You might scold me for taking my most cherished possession into the park in the first place. After all, that was the action that instigated the annoying chain of events that currently has me in such a foul mood. But you see, it was the cruelty of my stepmother and three half-siblings that led me to the park, book in hand. I couldn't leave the novel back at home for the triplets to damage further, could I?

And the whole losing my book in a tree incident? Again, _not_ my fault. The darned purple crayon marks obscuring the words were what caused my arm to abruptly catapult the scarlet novel up into the tree. Then it was the stubborn branches that wouldn't return my book to me no matter how hard I shook them.

Clearly, neither am I to blame for the fact that I couldn't climb the massive tree and regain my book. In my opinion, there are two types of people in this world: those who can climb trees, and those who can't. I fall under the latter category. So sue me.

And the filthy, freaky, _talking_ owl that appeared out of the blue? Naturally, I had absolutely nothing to do with that. I detest animals, especially ones of the feathery, flying variety. Honestly, what's there to like about the nasty, sordid creatures? They eat, they defecate, they make crazy amounts of noise, and yet they expect you to pamper them like they're royalty. Disgusting. So you can see why I wouldn't have purposely summoned that sorry excuse for a barn owl. Not that I would have even known _how_ to summon a bird. Who does?

Of course, the contract that I reluctantly struck with said repulsive winged creature wasn't my fault, either. Sure, it takes two to make a deal, but the owl tricked me into the agreement. He––_it_; I refuse to refer to that despicable animal as a _he_––talked about it like it was all roses. All I had to do was allow him be my "special friend," as he called it, for a year, and in return he'd rescue my beloved book for me. Aside from the creepy aspect of the first part of the bargain, it was a win-win situation, right? _Wrong_.

I'd better go back to the beginning. No doubt everything will make a lot more sense then, and you'll understand exactly why I'm right in saying that I'm innocent.

* * *

**Author's Note:** So…what do you think? I know it's super short, but it's just the prologue; future chapters will be longer. (:


	2. Chapter 1: The Beginning

**Title:** The Owl King

**Author:** MidnightCat99

**Summary:** Sarah just wanted her book back. How could she have foreseen the chaos engendered by her bargain with that ridiculous owl? A modern Labyrinthian retelling of "The Frog Prince."

**Rating: **K+

**Author's Note:** I edited this a hundred times (not really) and I'm still not too happy with how it turned out. Even now, I'll probably go back and edit it a few more times. So please feel free to give me constructive criticism, and I'll try to apply it. Anyway, this chapter turned out kind of…weird and…dull. Hopefully it's not _too_ boring, but I want to establish enough background before I get to the Book Incident and the subsequent events. I had an unusual amount of trouble with the tenses in this chapter, and as usual I probably abused commas. Maybe I should get a beta reader…

**Disclaimer:** I own neither _Labyrinth_ nor the "The Frog Prince."

* * *

**Chapter I**

**The Beginning**

_**I**_ wanted to like my stepmother. Truly, I did. But she just made it so darned difficult, and right off the bat too.

When my father announced his engagement to Karen Weller, I'll admit I initially was skeptical. After all, my biological mother had abandoned us in order to pursue an acting career when I was five; my reluctance to acquire a new parent was only natural. And the fact that I'd spent a grand total of fifty-two minutes in the presence of my future stepmother certainly didn't help my leeriness. But I longed to have a complete, content family, something I'd lacked for three long years, and having such a family would irrefutably be easier if affection existed between its members. So I did _want_ to like Karen. Accordingly, I banished all thoughts of receiving a stereotypical evil stepmother. Not that I ever believed _that_ was what I'd get out of my father's second marriage; it was too clichéd. Ironically, I should have expected just that.

At the wedding Karen was nice enough. Seemed like it, at least. Garbed in a flowing gown of ivory silk, with her orange hair piled elaborately on her head, she was a vision. My naive eight-year-old mind was tempted to compare her to an ethereal creature from a fairy story. Something held me back, though, some subconscious fear that her true nature didn't exactly correspond to her external appearance. I was right about _that_ at least.

During the ceremony and subsequent reception, she was all smiles. It was only later, when I became acquainted with that same facial expression, that I realized it was as deceptive and superficial as it got. But like everyone else within a ten-foot radius of the bride, I was blinded by the dazzling beauty dancing in her smiles. When my gaze fell upon her, I saw only kindness and promises of sunshine and happiness. My wariness about gaining a stepparent started to slip away, relief and expectancy rushing in to replace it. Genuine hope began to take shape inside me, hope that for the first time in years, I'd have a real family. Things were looking up.

Until we got home. Then the halo came off and the horns came out.

While my father finished some last-minute packing for his and Karen's honeymoon trip to Venice, I received my first taste of my stepmother's nasty character.

"Come here, Sarah," the newest member of my family called, her back to me as she shut the front door. Moving carefully to avoid ripping her exorbitant dress, she ensconced herself on the living room couch. Her lovely face split into the Smile.

I was only too eager to comply. Throughout the tedious day I'd felt the pull of her radiant smiles, but the lively crowd of wedding guests had kept me from approaching her. Now was my chance to actually get to know my new mother. Bubbling with anticipation, I dropped down beside Karen on the beige sofa, not taking half as much care to protect my own fancy silver frock. Without warning, a scowl swallowed her grin up as if the latter had never existed. I returned her glare, mistaking it for a challenge to a staring contest.

Karen's voice abruptly cut through the silence. "Listen, Sarah, I love your father, and naturally it would take nothing short of love to prevail upon me to marry a man with a daughter."

Taken aback by the unexpected iciness in her tone, I could only blink.

"I dislike children," she continued bluntly. "Therefore, I've never wanted one."

I'm not a thickheaded person, nor was I then, but I couldn't seem to stop blinking in bewilderment. "You don't want a kid?" I echoed, my brow furrowing.

"No."

I felt both my face and my hopes do a nosedive. "Oh," I muttered, glowering at my small, clenched hands. "So you don't want me…?"

Any last hope I might have possessed that it was all a game, a trick, a joke, was dashed to pieces with her monosyllabic reply: "No."

That was when I perceived that the reason I'd seen her so rarely during her and my father's dating days was not mere accidence; she'd purposely been avoiding me.

"However," Karen said, her voice now thoroughly awash with antipathy, "since you're my stepdaughter whether I like it or not, somehow we'll have to tolerate each other." At those words, I was gripped by the uncharacteristic urge to snort. Up until five minutes ago, I wouldn't have had any problem living with and even _liking_ Karen. The woman was a Williams for less than a day and already she was screwing everything up. _Honestly_.

In Karen's presence I felt suddenly inferior, imbecilic and dense and as insignificant as a dust bunny. It was in these kinds of moments that I was most prone to fits of temper, to actions of pure stupidity that invariably resulted in belated regret. I had to get away from her before I did something that I would rue later. Jumping to my feet, I took one hasty step away from the couch. Unfortunately, one step was all it took for me to trip on my excessively long skirt and do a face-plant on the hardwood floor.

"Um…_ow_."

An annoyingly shrill shriek reached my ears as I fought the waves of nausea generated by my collision with the ground. "_Sarah_!"

A sudden yank on my arm pulled me unceremoniously to my feet. Blinking dizzily, I looked first at the hand on my arm, then at the face of the one who'd yanked me. "Karen…?"

"Your _dress_!" my stepmother all but spat. "You've _ruined_ it, you _ridiculous_ girl!"

I darted a glance at the bottom of my silver gown, which was indeed marred by an ugly slash.

"I–I think I need an icepack," I stammered, fighting the trembling of my lower lip. I touched three fingers tentatively to my forehead, thus causing a jolt of pain to erupt in that area.

"An _icepack_? No, what we need is a sewing machine."

"What?"

"Despite what you may think, _Sarah_, that dress was _not_ inexpensive," she snapped. "I'll have to fix it before you damage it further."

The next moment, I was alone in the living room, slumping on the ground and glaring at nothing in particular. I'd just collided with the floor, and all my stepmother cared about was fixing the dress I'd accidentally torn in my fall. Unbelievable.

"What happened to you?" came my father's voice from behind me.

"Tripped" was my faint reply.

"Ah."

I heard the light tread of Karen's heels on the ground as she returned from her search. I scowled at her––at least, I attempted to arrange my features into a scowl, but when the effort only yielded pain, I settled for a mental frown. It's the thought that counts, right?

Eyes on my frock, Karen crouched over me, her white hands bearing a sewing machine. The Smile was in place again. I glowered at the facial expression, now knowing the truth about it. It was a deception, a pretty upward curve of her scarlet lips to hide her true nature from the viewer._ Don't fall for it, Dad; don't let her fool you!_ I wanted to shout, but I bit down on my tongue to force myself into silence.

For an unbidden thought had suddenly sprang into my mind. In fairy tales, the evil stepmother never unveiled her wickedness to her husband, or anyone else for that matter. It was only in the presence of the poor stepchildren that she displayed her cruelty.

As you can probably guess, by now I'd grudgingly acknowledged that I had in fact gotten the very thing I'd thought I'd never get out of my dad's remarriage: the stereotypical wicked stepmother.

* * *

**_Y_**ou can imagine my displeasure when I found that my theory was correct. While the rest of the world got Karen's halo, I got her horns.

As she immediately made clear, my stepmother's idea of us "tolerating each other" was her deriding and disparaging me whenever possible, and me putting up with it. I quickly learned that while Karen's depreciate remarks, dictates, and reminders that I was of no more worth to her than a speck of dust were unavoidable, I couldn't simply put up with them. A fast retort was the only kind of response I could offer one of her derogatory statements or demands; flattery or compliance would only increase her self-importance and her disdain of me, thus exacerbating my situation.

Something about kids––me in particular––and Karen just didn't mix. It was like trying to force toothpaste to possess endearment for orange juice. And the plethora of differences between us definitely didn't help our relationship. She disliked 95% of the things I just so happened to be fond of, including fairy tales, playacting, and, apparently, peace. Karen's favorite pastime, it would seem, was nagging me until it took every ounce of my self-control to restrain myself from kicking her to the moon. Additionally, I had a strong sense of personal space; Karen didn't. In fact, she seemed to derive gratification from infringing upon mine. In a home ruled by a freakishly domineering woman, my room was a refuge and locking my door was naturally the best way to keep that haven secure. Unfortunately, the key to my door happened to "disappear" at all the wrong times. That is, the times when my stepparent's desired access to my bedroom, which were far too frequent.

And did my dad ever witness any of this? Or course not. My stepmother's nastiness was reserved for me (and any other children that were unlucky enough to end up in the same area as her), and therefore only emerged when the two of us were alone. It was no use attempting to inform my father of his spouse's hidden evilness. He was as blinded by Karen's Smiles and seeming amiability as I'd been on their wedding day, and no amount of persuasive words from me would convince him that his beloved wife was not as angelic as she led him to believe.

I thought things couldn't possibly get worse.

But then the triplets were born, and I realized how wrong I'd been.

* * *

_**K**_aren's claim to detest _all_ children was nothing short of true. When she discovered that she was pregnant, her reaction was…_unpleasant_ to say the least. Evidently whatever steps she'd been taking to avoid pregnancy hadn't been effectual.

And _my_ reaction? The news that I'd be gaining three more additions to my family wasn't exactly something I welcomed, given how badly the _first_ addition had turned out. But these were kids, siblings, not overbearing women going about the role of motherhood all wrong. Siblings _had_ to be better than a stepmother. Perhaps this event would yield a trio of allies against Karen. A girl could hope, couldn't she? If I got to the children at an early age, I might be able to turn them to my side. Right?

You guessed it. _Wrong_. Finding allies in my three half-siblings? Oh, _wow_. Thinking back to that time over eight years ago, the whole idea seems laughable. My mentality at nine years old was ridiculous. Such inane _ideas_…

The three babies that popped out of Karen's womb were immediate carbon copies of her––not solely in appearance, mind you. For starters, Charlotte, Blair, and Toby all had the Smile. However, I likely would have been inclined to dislike the triplets even if they hadn't borne the slightest resemblance to their mother. That sounds terrible, I know, but how would _you_ feel toward siblings that entered the world just two days before _your_ birthday? Any celebration I might have received for turning the big 1-0 was forgotten in the hustle and bustle of the triplets' birth. And it wasn't like my family made up for that incident the following year. While Karen liked the trio as little as she did me, my father spoiled the three rotten and accordingly lavished them with an extravagant birthday party each year that far exceeded any celebration I was ever given.

To add insult to injury, the triplets encroached on my incontestably valuable personal space by taking my room. Yep, that's right. With the babies' birth, I lost my wonderfully spacious bedroom and was forced to take up residence in the pint-sized one across the hall. This, of course, was hardly an adequate reason for me to despise my siblings; it wasn't like they'd deliberately stolen from me. I _did_ view that as a perfectly sufficient excuse for the first few years of the triplets' lives, though. Even when I was old enough to realize how ridiculous I was being, the fact that my half-sibs were mini-Karens prevented me from liking them any more than I did before. They were menaces, and their headquarters was located barely two yards away from my room. A fact which made me the target of a significant number of Charlotte, Blair, and Toby's numerous pranks. Hence my nickname for them: the Triple Terrors.

* * *

_**A**_s badly as Karen got along with children, her relationship with adolescents was even worse. I learned that the hard way. Accompanying my thirteenth birthday was a dramatic increase in my proneness to fits of tempers. Needless to say, the temper of a full-grown, perpetually pissed woman clashing with that of an irritable teenager is never a good thing.

Furthermore, with the advent of adolescence my sense of personal space intensified, as did Karen's propensity to violate said space. On the few occasions that I forgot to lock the door, she barged into my room and began organizing and cleaning anything in sight (and out of sight too) like there was no tomorrow. As I grew more diligent in locking my door, she developed a habit of hiding the key required for such an action. And when I managed to find and use the blasted comprehend of metal, she implemented whatever means necessary to get me to open the door. What she found so fascinating about invading my privacy I could never comprehend, but invade it she did. Again. And again. And _again._

Here's where you might be inclined to imagine that I'm exaggerating. I confess that, like nearly everyone else on this planet, I'm occasionally inclined to dramatization. But not in this instance. Trust me, if you encountered my stepmother, you'd understand.

Karen was the thorn in my foot, pushing deeper into my flesh with each step I took. I couldn't avert her cruelty by simply being a doormat under her feet; that only made matters worse. If I gave her an inch she'd walk all over me. If she pushed or pulled, I reciprocated the action. I _had_ to. Could you really blame me?

* * *

**Author's Note:** What do you think? Any type of feedback is greatly appreciated. (=


	3. Chapter 2: The Book

**Title: **The Owl King

**Author:** MidnightCat99

**Summary: **Sarah just wanted her book back. How could she have foreseen the chaos engendered by her bargain with that ridiculous owl? A modern Labyrinthian retelling of "The Frog Prince."

**Rating:** K+

**Author's Note:** Okay, my goal is to update this at least once every two weeks. Sorry this chapter is so stinking short. The next one will be much longer! (=

**Disclaimer:** I own neither _Labyrinth_ nor "The Frog Prince."

* * *

**Chapter II**

**The Book**

_**A**_s I ambled down the sidewalk, it occurred to me that I should have been annoyed. Being dropped off at a crowded shopping center with no more than two bucks while my family ran errands was certainly not the way I'd have chosen to spend my Saturday. But an entire hour without my evil stepmother and half-siblings was too exciting an idea to bemoan, and my lips were itching to shoot upward into a silly grin.

What _didn_'t occur to me was to wonder why I'd been left here. The reason was clear: Karen wanted me both out of her fluffy orange hair and away from home, where I might be inclined to raid her room (again) in revenge for her habit of breaking and entering my own.

A sudden flash of white against the azure sky drew my attention upward. Staring heavenward, I didn't see the girl with the armful of books until I ran into her. "_Oof_."

"Hey, watch where you're going, you klutz!"

I looked up at the owner of the voice: a girl perhaps a year younger than me, perhaps a year older––it was hard to discern which–– with curious jade eyes and a pale, angular face framed by wild orange curls. She glanced first at me, then at the horde of books laying in disarray around her feet. Emphatically, she extended her arms to the surrounding mess and began gathering the items into her hands again.

"Sorry," I mumbled, regaining my feet.

"Yeah, whatever." Scooping the last of the books up into her arms, the girl began to march away.

"Wait! You forgot one."

At my words, she halted and spun back around to face me, lips pursed irritatedly. "Keep it."

"What?"

"I…said…" she replied, enunciating each syllable with exaggerated slowness as if speaking to a child, and an exceptionally dense one at that, "'Keep…it.' I'm just donating these silly old books to the used bookstore down the street, anyway. You'll be doing me a favor by taking that dead weight off my hands."

Picking up the "dead weight" as she called it laying at my feet, I ran my fingers over the ornate golden letters of its title: _The Labyrinth_. Something about that name piqued my interest, triggered a sudden tightening of my chest that felt like excitement. The small scarlet book was short, yes, barely over two-hundred pages. But an odd and intense sort of certainty had taken shape within me: This little novel had an intriguing story to tell, a story that I indubitably would want to hear.

I glanced at the volume's back cover, instantly noticing the absence of a summary a book usually possessed.

"It's a fairy tale," the girl said superciliously, detecting my confusion.

That statement confirmed my suspicions: this was a story I would want to read.

"Thanks––" I began, turning my eyes away from the red book and back to the girl––at least, back to the spot she had occupied up until a moment ago. I blinked at the orange cat that now stood in her place. Mischief leaping about like flames within its aquamarine eyes, the dainty feline brushed past me, nipping my hand along the way.

"_Ouch_!" I jumped back, cradling the wounded appendage. There was a reason I didn't like animals. _Filthy, biting, _evil _beasts…_

The unwelcome blare of a car horn startled me from my incandescent thoughts. Reluctantly, I looked at the black van that had pulled up beside me. _They're back. Yay_. Throwing a final glare at the retreating cat, I flung open the door on the passenger side.

"What's that in your hands?" Karen asked, ever the pushy inquisitor.

"A book," I mumbled with a surreptitious eye roll. "Duh."

Said object was wrenched from my grasp before I could offer so much as an indignant objection. My eyes flashed, my forehead doing an impressive imitation of a shar pei as my stepmother turned the book roughly end over end in her ongoing quest to invade my privacy.

"A fairy story," she snorted derisively, at last shoving it back into my hands. "Haven't you outgrown such childish things by now, Sarah?"

Teeth digging into my bottom lip, I wrapped all ten fingers possessively around the novel. _Haven't you outgrown being a jerk by now, Mommy dearest?_

I climbed into the vehicle, pausing to sweep the scattering of tacks off my seat and glare daggers at the trio of five-year-old criminals sitting nonchalantly in the back. Charlotte and Blair blinked innocently in return, Toby immediately following suit.

I turned my gaze back to the book, and when I saw another flash of white in the distance, I wrote it off as a mere trick of the light.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Hopefully that was a somewhat original take on Sarah's discovery of the Book. Anyway, constructive criticism is welcome. Thanks for reading! (=


	4. Chapter 3: Bargain

**Title: **The Owl King

**Author:** MidnightCat99

**Summary: **Sarah just wanted her book back. How could she have foreseen the chaos engendered by her bargain with that ridiculous owl? A modern Labyrinthian retelling of "The Frog Prince."

**Rating:** K+

**Author's Note:** I meant to post this on Friday, but my internet wasn't working. Sorry. Anyway…Ha! Told you this chapter would be way longer than the last one. Hehe. Well, this took forever. I wrote a lot of this part over a month ago, but I wasn't happy with how my writing was turning out, so I kept changing and obsessing over silly little things. But anyway, I hope you like it. (=

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Labyrinth_. The same goes for "The Frog Prince."

* * *

**Chapter III**

**Bargain**

_**"**_Sarah!" a shrill voice shrieked outside my door, accompanied by a series of sharp raps on the wood. "Open up!"

My eyes darted from the book in my lap to the window, wild thoughts of constructing a rope out of old shirts leaping to my mind. _If I tie the knots just right…_

"_Sarah_!"

Sighing irritably and abandoning all hope of escape, I placed The Labyrinth under my pillow, jumped up from my bed, and flung open the door. Charlotte, the oldest of the Triple Terrors by thirteen minutes, tilted her head back to look up at me, her pink lips parting in the Smile.

"It wasn't even locked," I said. _Because _someone_ hid the key. Again._

"But just barging in without knocking would've been rude," she responded sweetly.

"And pounding on my door till I answer is polite?"

She shrugged, the Smile still in place.

"All right, what do you want?" I asked through clenched teeth.

"To go play at Jenni's house."

I studied my fingers, picking at the neon nail polish. "So? What does that have to do with me?"

"Mom said to have you drive me."

"Did she? And she didn't even bother asking me if I had time to do it."

"She said you were probably only reading again."

Inwardly I seethed at the statement. Insult the hobby, you insult the book with which that hobby is practiced, which is _entirely_ unacceptable. "_Only_ reading? Since when is reading unimportant?"

Another shrug. "Can you take me yet?"

"I happen to be busy at the moment."

She tried to push past me into the room. "What _are_ you doing?"

"None of your business." I crossed my arms and stood resolutely in the center of the doorway to block her entry. "Now leave, Charlotte. I'm not taking you anywhere."

She frowned up at me, her suddenly irritated expression a mirror of my own. "I'll tell Mom," she threatened, voice high.

"I'm trembling."

"I'll…I'll…" She fell abruptly silent, her small nose wrinkling, the tell-tell sign that she was deep in thought. I watched her, almost amused. Almost. Then her face lit up and the Smile returned. "I'll tell Mom about the trunkful of fairy tale costumes you snuck back out of our garage sale last month."

A quick spark of fear shocked my body into stillness, but then I dissipated the unbidden emotion and released a snort. "You don't even have proof of that."

"Actually, I do. You keep the trunk hidden in the nearby park."

I felt an explosion of heat race up my neck, flooding my cheeks. "You little stalker! You followed me to my park?"

"Your park?"

"I––" Embarrassment caused my flush to deepen. Silly as it might sound, I'd taken to calling the park located two miles from home "my park." When Karen's key-snatching habits made it clear several years ago that my bedroom hardly fit the requirements of a haven, I began to seek refuge in my park. There, without my irksome family to bother me, I was free to immerse myself in my fantasies, reading (and rereading) _The Labyrinth_ and acting out my favorite parts, imagining _I _was the courageous teenage heroine who both defeated the wicked Goblin King and foiled her malevolent stepmother's plans to make her life a living heck. Since Karen was not an outdoors kind of person, I didn't have to worry about her following me to my alfresco sanctuary. And the triplets? Why on earth would they travel two miles merely to further torment their unfortunate elder sister? There were vicious, yes, but surely not to _that_ extent. Apparently, I'd underestimated how far my troublesome siblings were willing to go to drive me up the wall. Charlotte had followed me, and if she divulged the hiding place of my costumes to Karen, I was dead.

_Crud_. "Fine," I muttered. "I'll take you." Snatching up my purse and car keys, I pushed through the open door and marched out to the garage, deliberately ignoring the seven-year-old at my heels, her face aglow with gleeful triumph.

* * *

_**T**_en miles of driving, one trip to the toy store, and twenty-five wasted dollars later, I at last found myself back in my bedroom. One glance was all it took for me to realize something wasn't quite right. _Someone's been in my room again._

My gaze swept the small space, searching for the source of the not-quite-rightness. All my stuffed animals were in their proper places in the cubby holes on the wall, even Lancelot, a frequent target of the triplets' kidnapping escapades. The shelves were lined with the correct number and order of books, and my array of knickknacks sat neatly on my desk as usual.

Finally my eyes fell on the bed, and instantly narrowed.

The blankets were ever so slightly out of place; the pillow was askew.

Trepidation and ire battling for supremacy within me, I sucked in a breath, placed one hand on the pillow, and tore it from the bed. _The Labyrinth_ still sat underneath, just where I'd left it. Still, its scarlet cover taunted me, daring me to part its pages and search for signs of destructive actions at the hands of my siblings. I brushed two fingers tentatively against the vermillion novel, then berated myself for my cowardice and flipped it open.

Pages marred by purple marks met my eyes.

"Markers!" I exclaimed, flinging out the pair of syllables in utter repugnance. "Not just crayons, but permanent _markers_!"

Instinctively my hand plastered itself against my mouth to smother the inevitable outraged scream. I crushed my face to my pillow, releasing my vociferations into the unfortunate white cushion. Several minutes later I lifted my head slightly, just enough so that I was no longer in danger of suffocating myself.

_Okay, Sarah, let's just count to ten. 1…2…3…4…5…6…7––ah, heck, forget it._

I rose from the bed slowly, lips parting to form a single word: "_Toby_." Of course it was Toby. The chaotic violet streaks running down _The Labyrinth_'s pages could belong neither to Charlotte, who was at her friend's house, nor Blair, who actually possessed some artistic talent.

I stormed out of my bedroom. Time to punish the little Picasso wannabe. Flying down the staircase, I burst into the living room. Two blond heads popped up in unison at my loud entrance: Blair and Toby, the Triple Terrors minus their leader.

"Toby," I all but snarled.

The youngest triplet's face was the picture of innocence. "Yes, Sarah?"

Fury coursing through my veins like scalding blood, I snapped, "Why on _earth_ would you _color_ in my _favorite book_?"

His thin shoulders lifted in a brief shrug. The impenitency of the motion caused me to ball me hands into fists. "Charlotte dared me to," he said. As if that simple statement ended the conversation, the boy turned his attention back to his card game with Blair.

The rage had grown so hot that it almost physically, truly hurt. "Charlotte dared––Why would she––Oh wait, _why_ would I even ask _that_?" My voice dripped with sarcasm, and Toby glanced up again. "Why do you Terrors do _anything_? Oh, I know! It's just what you _do_. It's all a part of your grand scheme to make my life _miserable_!"

"Sarah," he whispered, turquoise eyes clouding with tears.

I groaned and squeezed my own eyes shut. While Charlotte's power lay in manipulation and Blair's in intelligence beyond her seven years, Toby's lay in feigned innocence and delicacy. He was pro at playing China Doll, harmless and guiltless and prone to shatter at the slightest raised voice. This was how he elicited pity and escaped punishment for the scrapes that he, as a Terror, managed to get himself into time and again. His ability to spontaneously induce tears certainly didn't help matters much. Far too many times had I allowed myself to be tricked into letting the child off the hook. But not this time.

My eyes shot open again. The tears were dribbling down Toby's face now. And suddenly my resolve to continue extracting revenge for my soiled novel via a harangue crumbled like a sandcastle under a bowling ball. It was absurd, but I was incapable of yelling at a little boy spouting torrents of contrived tears.

"Tragic," Blair murmured sarcastically, toying with a dark blond strand of hair and arching one eyebrow at the scene. "Hey, don't look at me like that," she said in response to the glower I sent her way. "It isn't my fault that you chose not to lock your door."

"It's not _my_ fault your mother hid my key," I retorted.

"Depends on your point of view," she said airily, studying the cards in her hands.

I returned my glare to Toby, who peered at me through his tears simply shrugged and opened his hands to show the deck of cards in his clutch.

"Wanna play Go Fish?" he inquired softly.

"No!" I spun on my heel and stomped out of the room. Really, had I expected my brother to offer so much as an apology? Of course he wouldn't have. Raised by Karen, the boy had never learned the significance of saying "sorry."

It didn't matter anyway. My book was ruined; what good could an apology do in the face of such tragedy?

As I dashed past the children on my way to the front door, I didn't miss the glance the two exchanged; it was a look of triumph, of satisfaction at another prank perfectly executed.

Flinging open the door, I rushed out into the blazing summer heat. "I hate this place!"

* * *

_**L**_ike so many times in the past, I sought refuge in my park. Yes, _my_ park. I paced beneath my favorite tree, frantically scratching at the violet blemishes staining my poor book like thick blood. Under my fingers' diligent labor, the brilliant purple marks began to fade to a lighter shade of mauve, but disappear entirely they did not, nor did they exhibit any signs of doing so. Ever.

I continued my futile endeavor to restore _The Labyrinth_ to its former glory until…my finger pierced the page straight through. I blinked. A hole. There was a _hole_ in my book.

"It's not…_right_!" Shaking with rage, my hands took on a mind of their own, jerking themselves upward and releasing the object in their grip. My eyes proceeded to join the rebellion, shutting themselves of their own accord. I waited for the muffled thump that signified the novel's return to earth. And waited. And waited. But…nothing. My eyes flew open, searching for the small red book in the tufts of grass at my feet.

_Where is it? This doesn't make sense. It should be on the ground. What goes up must come down. Unless…_

Reluctantly, I tilted my head back to stare at the overhanging canopy of leaves.

_…it's stuck in a tree. Wow. I hurled that a lot farther than I thought._

I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned inwardly. That did _not_ just happen. Casting a second glance at my book, which rested on a branch several yards above my head, I was forced to concede that yes, that _did_ just happen. Silently cursing myself for my own stupidity, I stepped forward, grasped the gnarled trunk, and attempted to shake it, half-expecting the entire tree to vibrate and simultaneously laughing at myself for such ludicrous thoughts. Dizzily I squinted at the boughs overhead and imagined that they were trembling. In reality, the entire tree, particularly the branch holding my book captive, was maddeningly still.

_All right. Plan B._

After pulling my long, dark hair into a hasty ponytail, I again placed both hands on the trunk. I darted another glance up at the tree, which was far too tall for my comfort. My book wasn't _too_ high up, but still. It was _high_. _Stupid acrophobia_. Grasping the wood like my life hung in the balance––which, at that moment, did seem to be the case––I lifted one foot, placed it on a protuberant knot, and pushed myself up, immediately reaching for another handhold. Either the bark broke away from the tree at my touch, or my hand simply met thin air, but one way or another the next moment I was on the ground.

Never say I'm anything but persistent. Gritting my teeth, I stood, brushed my backside off, and had another go. The subsequent dozen attempts––yes, I did try twelve more times––produced similar results. When I landed on my rump for the twelfth time, I decided enough was enough. I certainly wasn't getting my book back _this_ way.

Screaming in frustration, I delivered a savage kick to the darned overgrown plant. Naturally, I didn't so much as dent it, and my foot got the short end of the stick. I screeched again, this time in pain. I clutched my throbbing foot and hopped clumsily around on the other, fighting to keep my balance. Which, in the end, I didn't. For the second time in less than two minutes, I landed rather unceremoniously on the ground. My face twisted into a scowl. _Screw trees_.

My wind was whirling with thoughts of taking an axe to my novel's woody captor, when I felt a whoosh of air. I looked up to see a filthy barn owl alight on a rock a mere yard from where I was slumped. _Screw birds too_. Too vexed to wonder why a nocturnal bird was out in broad daylight, I glared at it, taking it its disheveled, mucky feathers and clashing brown and blue eyes.

Then to my amazement, the owl opened its mouth. And spoke. To me. In _English_. "Is something wrong?"

I gaped at the creature, rubbed my eyes, blinked several times, and repeated the process. Twice.

"Is something wrong?" the bird repeated. I watched it closely, then shook my head in frustration. Yep, that was definitely the owl's mouth moving to emit those words. _Crud._ I'd lost it.

"You're an owl," I stated stupidly.

"Yes," it acknowledged. "And you are a girl."

"Yes." So the talking bird had a sense of humor, did it? Great. Just what I needed: a _bird_ laughing at me. "Um…owls don't talk."

"That's your opinion. I'll have you know that I am not quite what I appear."

I lifted a hand to shade my eyes from the blinding sun. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind. Do you plan to answer my question?" it asked, but its tone was courteous rather than rude.

"And what was your question again?"

"'Is something wrong?'"

"Well…yes. My favorite book is stuck in that tree." I gestured upward.

Was that _amusement_ glinting in the owl's eyes? No, it must be a trick of the light. Owls did not look amused––they didn't talk, either. "And how did it end up there?" it inquired.

I flushed, then reprimanded myself for doing so just because of something a bird had said. Honestly. "I, uh…well, it was the wind…"

"Ah, so the wind magically lifted the book from your hands and set it down in that tree?"

"No, it––Look, it doesn't matter how my book got up there. The point is that it's up there, I'm down here, I can't get it down, and why am I telling you all of this? You're an _owl_, for goblins' sake! It's not like you can help me. You're not even supposed to be _talking_!"

A moment passed in silence. Then the owl blinked and said, "Are you finished?"

I echoed the action. "Am…I…_what_?"

"Are you finished with your petty tantrum? Or do I need to plug my ears? I'd appreciate it you didn't make me do such a thing, by the way; it's not the easiest action in the world to complete, with these tiny ears and colossal feathers and all."

"Yes, I'm done," I sniffed.

The creature bobbed its head in what I assumed was a satisfied nod. "Good. Now, let's see about recovering your book."

I snorted. "Like I said, how are you going to help me do that? You're just a silly bird."

"Like _I_ said, I am not what I appear. Please refrain from asking anymore insignificant, time-wasting questions now," it added quickly as I opened my mouth to do just that. I shut my mouth with an audible click. Being ordered around by a bird. What had the world come to?

"Now, as you seem to have forgotten––or perhaps not realized at all–I have wings. Therefore, I can fly up there and retrieve your beloved book for you. If––"

I shook my head, a cynical smile tugging at my lips. "I knew there had to be a catch. All right, what do you want? A mouse? A female owl?" I eyed the creature's filthy body. "Or perhaps a bath?"

"No," the bird replied, its voice hinting at annoyance regarding my last question. "I want to be your friend for a year."

I was quiet, allowing the animal time to burst into laughter and admit it was kidding. Instead, it merely joined me in my silence. "Wait, what? Are you serious?" I asked incredulously.

"Entirely."

I swallowed a chortle. "Really? You want to be my _friend_?"

"Your _special_ friend, to be exact."

I leaned back against the tree, folding my arms. "You do realize you're a _bird_, right? And I'm a human. Not the usual candidates for BFFs, you know." _Especially when the human can't stand birds…_

"If you don't want your book back, I can leave." It turned as if do so. Unbelievable. The owl was _threatening_ me.

"Go ahead," I replied nonchalantly, calling its bluff.

Turning back to face me, the bird said, "Don't act as if it will be such a burden. Just agree to my proposal, and the book is yours again. Look at it, just sitting up there all alone." It motioned with its sordid feathers to said object. "It misses you. And you miss it."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't get dramatic."

"You _know_ you want me to get it for you," it went on as if I'd not spoken. "Really, is maintaining a friendship with a little bird for three-hundred sixty-five days so much to ask? I wouldn't think so."

"You wouldn't, would you?" I paused, a frown settling itself into my forehead as I studied the owl. All at once, I realized I was hallucinating. What other explanation could there be? This bird wasn't actually _speaking_ to me. The triplets must have sneaked something into my lunch this afternoon. It wouldn't be the first time the bothersome trio had drugged me in some way. Though it _would_ be the first time they'd made me hallucinate talking vertebrates…

"So, what's your answer?" The owl's low query dragged me out of my thoughts.

In that moment I arrived at another decision: Hallucination or not, I wanted my book back. _Now_. Within a matter of hours, the effects of whatever drugged food I'd consumed would wear off anyway; I might as well just agree to this silly animal's bargain. Clearly, that was the only way I was going to retrieve my novel. What was the worst that could happen?

"Okay," I finally murmured. "Get my book back for me, and I'll be your friend."

"_Special_ friend."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Honestly, you sound like one of those little kids from Barney. Or the purple dinosaur himself."

With a flap of its dirt-caked wings, the owl shot into the air, swiftly rescuing my book from the felonious branch and releasing it into my waiting hands. A grin breaking across my face, I hugged the little vermillion novel to my chest.

"Yes! I was afraid I'd lost you." Out of the corner of one eye I thought I glimpsed something like an eye roll from the owl, which had resumed its perch on the rock.

"Ahem."

I fixed my gaze once again on the bird, irked by its interruption of my reunion with _The Labyrinth_. "What?"

"Our bargain?"

Laughing, I turned to leave the park. "Forget it."

Lost in euphoria, I failed to notice the mangy barn owl silently take flight and follow me home.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Haha, I just realized that I've had Sarah fall down at least once per chapter. You guys don't mind if I make our protagonist a little bit clumsy, do you? Feedback's appreciated! (=


	5. Chapter 4: Not a Hallucination

**Title: **The Owl King

**Author: **MidnightCat99

**Summary:** Sarah just wanted her book back. How could she have foreseen the chaos engendered by her bargain with that ridiculous owl? A modern Labyrinthian retelling of "The Frog Prince."

**Rating:** K+

**Author's Note:** Wow, for once I updated before midnight. Sorry if things get a bit melodramatic in this chapter (or anywhere in the story), but our narrator _is_ a drama queen… Hmm. At the slow pace I'm going, it looks like this fic will turn out a bit longer than I planned. By the way, just so Sarah doesn't seem like a complete idiot for not noticing the similarities between her situation and "The Frog Prince", that fairy tale doesn't exist in the Aboveground in this story.

**Disclaimer:** This is FAN fiction.

* * *

**Chapter IV**

**Not a Hallucination**

_**H**_aving convinced myself that that grimy talking owl was a hallucination, it was only inevitable that I'd next write the other events of the day off as the same. If I'd imagined the bird, why not the Book Incident as well?

_Everything will be fine––the Terrors didn't touch my book, I never lost it in a tree, I did not talk to a bird, and it certainly didn't talk back. It's just a hallucination_… The words pounded in my head like a chant, replaying themselves like nothing else mattered, like that was the only way to ensure that I would remain convinced.

But for a moment, for the briefest instant, the string of repetitive thoughts halted and a sliver of doubt slipped into my mind. Then, however, the thoughts sprang to life again, shoving the uncertainty back to the outskirts of my mind. _Just a hallucination…_

If I'd caught sight of the feathery figure shadowing me, maybe I wouldn't have felt so certain.

* * *

_**K**_aren was seated on the couch when I returned home, her expression virtually screaming warnings of an impending tirade. Immediately fixing my gaze on the staircase ahead, I ignored the orange-haired fury. Nevertheless, her words pursued me as my left foot touched the lowest stair: "Sarah, you forgot to pick Charlotte up from her friend's house!"

I kicked my mental chanting up a notch as I quickly climbed the steps and entered my room. _It's just a hallucination…_just_ a hallucination… _Holding one foot against the door––since the key was still "missing"––I changed into my pajamas, then hopped into bed. The sooner I got to sleep, the sooner I'd return to reality.

Impulsively, I clutched The Labyrinth, opened it in the middle, and glanced at the purple streaks. A familiar knot of ire began to form within my chest, and I quickly snapped the novel shut, stowing it behind Lancelot in the stuffed animal's cubby hole. _I'm just imagining all this. When I wake up tomorrow, that book's going to be pristine; those crayon marks will be gone._ With that thought, I closed my eyes, shutting out the world, waiting for sleep to claim me and this horrible day to slip away.

* * *

_**T**_hey weren't gone.

I stared at the open novel, alternately closing one eye then the other, squinting, blinking, _glaring_. However, no action on my part could change the fact that my book was still ruined. Fuming, I ran my fingers along one page, finding the hole, which inexplicably seemed to have grown. "Not fair," I breathed.

"You should not mumble; no one can understand what you're saying."

A gasp escaped my throat as I looked up––straight into the clashing eyes of a certain bird with cleanliness issues perching on my window sill._ I could've sworn I closed that window last night…_ "Not this again! Birds do not _talk_!"

I never thought I'd see the day when a barn owl sighed. But I did, right then, right there. "We've been over that already," it said irritatedly. "I speak, all right? Accept it. And do stop gaping at me like an imbecile."

"I have a right to gape! You're a stinking owl! And you are _speaking_. That's not natural!" Falling silent, I sat back on my unmade bed, pulling the checkered comforter up around my toes. "It's never taken this long for the effects of the Terrors' hallucination-inducing food to wear off…"

"You think you are hallucinating me?" the owl asked, its tone somewhere between amused and offended.

"Of course I am!" My head snapped up again, and I grimaced upon noticing that the filthy creature was significantly closer to me than it had been a minute ago. I backed further onto my bed, putting more distance between myself and my unexpected, and certainly unwanted, visitor. "It's just some stupid prank my sisters and brother are playing on me. I can prove it!" Leaping off my bed, I hurried out of the room and hammered on my siblings' door.

A bleary-eyed Charlotte answered, her lips pursed. "It's summer, sis; never wake me before noon." She began to push the door shut, but I swiftly stuck my foot in the way.

"Not so fast. What did you Terrors put in my lunch yesterday?"

A frown creased the blonde's forehead. "What? Nothing. We didn't touch your food."

"You didn't drug me?"

"Drug you?" She rolled her green eyes. "Oh, please! We stopped doing that when we were, like, _six_." She turned her head, calling into the room, "Right, guys?"

In response, there was a muffled groan of agreement from Toby and a smart, fully awake "Right" from Blair.

Charlotte faced me again. "Told you so."

My breath quickened with rising panic. "But you must have! Why else would I be hallucinating a––" I could have kicked myself for my own idiocy. Then I realized that breaking off like that might have been the true extent of my foolishness.

At my sudden pause, Charlotte blinked, apparently battling her drowsiness to process what I'd said. A slow grin traveled across her face. "Hallucinating? Hallucinating _what_?"

"Never mind." My feet had carried me the two yards to my room and my hand had slammed the door behind me before the girl could offer a reply. I leaned against the closed door, breathing slowly.

"What I want to know is how you believe you retrieved your book yesterday if I'm nothing more than a figment of your imagination." The owl was now perching on the chair in front of my vanity, its countenance condescension itself.

"Oh, shut up and let me think." Struggling for coherent thought, I pressed two fingers to my forehead and moved them in small, circular motions. The triplets were many things, but they weren't liars. Which meant that Charlotte had been telling the truth when she'd asserted that she and her two cohorts hadn't drugged my food. Which meant…

This was not a hallucination.

"You're real," I whispered.

"It took you long enough to grasp that fact. Now, about our agreement––"

"No." I folded my arms across my chest. Just because the silly animal could talk didn't mean I was going to let it boss me around. "Listen, I wasn't in my right mind when we made that bargain. I thought I was imagining it all. So it's null and void. Now leave my room. Please," I added as an afterthought; maybe politeness would work.

The bird wasn't budging.

"Okay, I asked nicely. Now we'll have to do things the hard way." Reaching the chair in two strides, I picked up the owl––surprisingly, it didn't put up a fight––and crossed to the window to fling it outside––

But I couldn't. It wasn't that I didn't have the heart to do so; I physically _couldn_'t. An invisible force of some kind was literally preventing me from throwing the creature out the window. I might as well have attempted to push two magnets with like poles together.

"Is this a joke?"

"No, but I find it extremely amusing," the infuriating bird chuckled, clearly enjoying my unsuccessful endeavors.

"Shut _up_ already!" I snarled, putting all my weight into pushing the owl through the unseen barrier.

"You can continue to try, but you won't be able to get rid of me that way."

I halted. "Well, how about through the door, huh?"

"Nope." I might have tried anyway, were it not for the utter certainty in the bird's voice.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me." I relaxed my fingers, and the owl slipped out of my grasp, alighting on my vanity.

"Whether or not you were in your 'right mind'," it said, "our bargain is binding."

My exasperation bled into my voice. "So, that's what will happen whenever I try to get rid of you? There'll be some kind of invisible force pushing against me?"

"More or less."

"So I'm stuck with you." My teeth clenched in anger. "What else does being 'special friends' involve?"

"Ah, now we're finally getting to the right questions."

I snorted.

Ignoring that, the animal said, "You must take me with you wherever you go and allow me to stay in your bedroom. Also, you cannot tell anyone that I am capable of speech, nor can you let our bargain and my presence in your room be known to anyone––especially your stepmother and younger siblings."

"How do you know about my step––Wait. You have to go _everywhere_ with me? And you want to stay _here_? In my _room_?"

"Precisely."

"_Humph_. Well, what if I won't do it?"

"As you have already seen, you cannot get––"

"Rid of you. I know that part. I mean, what if I tell someone about you or our bargain? What happens then?"

"Do _not_ do that." The owl's voice had dropped to a menacingly soft pitch that I might have found comical at any other time.

"What will happen?" I repeated, unconsciously lowering my voice as well.

"Nothing pleasant," it replied grimly. "So I shall reiterate it: _Don_'t."

"Fine, I won't. But something about this bargain is just…off. You did something for me that took half a minute, max. And in return I have to do something for you that takes a whole year? That's completely unfair."

"Life isn't fair. Have you never realized that?"

I grunted. "I think I'm starting to."

"It's settled then?"

"_Yes_." The word was drawn out, each syllable shot through with pure vexation. "I'll keep my part of the bargain."

"Good."

Dropping onto my bed, I massaged my temples in a futile attempt to quell the beginnings of a headache. "Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm open to suggestions, constructive criticism, etc. Thanks for reading! (=


	6. Chapter 5: Ruffling a Few Feathers

**Title:** The Owl King

**Author:** MidnightCat99

**Summary:** Sarah just wanted her book back. How could she have foreseen the chaos engendered by her bargain with that ridiculous owl? A modern Labyrinthian retelling of "The Frog Prince."

**Rating:** K+

**Author's Note:** So, I finally made myself get off my behind and finish this chapter (figuratively speaking, of course; I don't write standing up…often). Sorry it took me sooooo long. What can I say? I have the attention span of a pup––_squirrel_! (Shameless reference to _Up_.)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sarah, Jareth, blah, blah, blah.

* * *

**Chapter V**

**Ruffling a Few Feathers**

_**T**_he owl's eyes followed me as I pulled a black tank top and jean shorts out of my dresser. Not trusting the bird to keep its eyes shut while I changed, I headed toward the door. "Stop." I spun around to face the owl just as it began to shadow my movements. "I know I agreed to let you accompany me everywhere, but there are always exceptions; there have to be some places I can go alone."

His expression was mocking. "Such as?"

"Such as the bathroom."

Instead of hurling the retort I'd come to expect from it, the bird merely said, "Fair enough," and returned to its perch on my desk.

I blinked once before leaving the room. _Thank goblins. Maybe there will be _some_ reasoning with this creep on wings after all._

With the way it began muttering to itself after that, you'd have thought the owl had read my mind. A possibility which, given the past day, I wasn't ready to out.

* * *

_**T**_he owl's dangerous proximity to the assorted knickknacks on my vanity was the first thing I noticed upon returning to my room._ One misstep and…_ "Hey, bird, get away from––"

"I have a _name_, you know," it sniffed self-importantly.

"You do? Well, you never bothered to tell me!"

"You never asked." The ensuing silence made it clear that the bird had every intention of not supplying the name until I requested it.

"What," I sighed, "is your name?"

"Jareth," it said dramatically, as if its announcement was accompanied by a fanfare instead of…silence. Awkward silence.

"_Jareth_. Really? Did you make that up yourself?"

"Of course not," he––no point in referring to the bird as "it" now that it had a name––snapped. "It is a perfectly normal name where I come from."

"Which is _where_?"

His tone quickly shifted from miffed to cold. "That is none of your concern."

My mouth twisted into a sardonic smile. "Oh, but shouldn't 'special friends' share everything with each other?"

"There all always exceptions."

"Ha ha. Anyway, I'm guessing it's England."

"Pardon?"

"Well, you have a British accent." Funny I hadn't noticed it earlier. Then again, I _had_ been distracted by the very distracting fact that the owl was talking in the first place.

Jareth's expression was caught somewhere between "I have no idea what you're talking about" and "I know perfectly well what you mean but I'm too prideful to respond anyway."

Before I could decide which it was, Jareth said, "So…what are we doing today?"

I raised an eyebrow. "When did I become your source of entertainment?"

"The moment you agreed to my bargain."

A half minute of brain racking produced an inadequate "You're impossible."

"Maybe," he said, unrepentant.

"Try _definitely_. All right, Jareth, sorry to disappoint you, but all I have planned for today is––" I halted in mid-sentence, a sudden, perfectly delicious thought occurring to me. "––a bath…"

His eyes smirked at me; I could virtually see the witty reply taking shape in his little mind.

"For _you_," I finished.

* * *

_**M**_uttering dramatically under his breath, Jareth perched on the edge of the bathtub as I filled it up. "Of course it would be the first thing she'd try, of course it would…"

"You know," I said, "you spend an awful lot of time doing things you say never to do. Like muttering."

"Do be quiet," he responded, his voice strained. He seemed to be on the verge of rubbing his head––if that were even physically possible––to ward off a headache.

"As you wish."

I think he might have gasped then at my apparent compliance. If I hadn't grasped his small body with both hands and plunged him headlong into the steaming water first, that is. He broke the surface, sputtering and sending drops of hot water flying in every direction. A glower flitted across his face for a split second before he set his features into an expression of resignedness. Maybe I should have been relieved by the lack of reaction, but I was anything but. The darned bird had barged into my life and literally forced my friendship, all with that infuriatingly smug superiority bleeding into his every action. He could at least have the grace to look annoyed at being bathed against his will. Yet he didn't so much as flinch as I viciously scrubbed his feathers, my nails all but digging into his skin.

Preoccupied with my efforts to elicit an indignant shriek, wince, or _any_ reaction––preferably of the pissed variety––from Jareth, it took me a good ten minutes to perceive a fact that should have been immediately obvious. Or, rather, _facts_. One, the water, although saturated with suds and the occasional feather, was still clean. Two, Jareth was as filthy as he'd been before the dunking. Three, behind his resigned expression lurked the ever-present smirk in his eyes.

My hands dropped to my sides. "What the heck! Why does this keep happening to me? First, I lose my book. Then I meet _you_. Then I find out that I'm _stuck_ with you. And now I can't even get you clean! It's not––"

"Fair?" he guessed.

I balled my hands into fists before my inner voice could succeed in goading them into doing something I'd regret.

"Not that this hasn't been an enjoyable affair, but I believe I've had enough soap and torturously rough hands" ––he flung a pointed glance at said appendages–– "to last me a fortnight."

_Fortnight? Who talks like that?_ He sounded like a haughty monarch speaking to a servant rather than an uninvited guest to his reluctant host.

"All right, then." Smiling pseudo-sweetly, I pulled Jareth, dripping, from the bath and deposited him in a towel. Within seconds he was lost in the absurd yellow fluffiness Karen had a penchant for buying. I rubbed the small form dry with every bit as much vigor as I'd scrubbed it minutes ago. The only difference was that this time I caught the bird off guard, and consequently, the rough movements of my hands were punctuated by Jareth's muffled protests from inside his fluffy prison. Once finished, I shook the towel out, thus releasing a decidedly dizzy barn owl into the air. A few frantic, disoriented flaps of his wings saved Jareth from a collision with the tile floor. His countenance verging more on motion sick than furious, he beat a hasty retreat to my bedroom.

I allowed myself a satisfied sigh as I folded the towel. If I could, I would have stayed there in that moment of temporary triumph, in that one instant where I was in control and I was the one laughing. But my "special friend" clearly had other plans; his voice echoed down the hall from my room: "Have fun cleaning up that mess."

My eyes darted from the floor to the bathtub, my euphoria taking a nosedive as I perceived how feathery and _fluffy_ my bathroom had become.

I could swear I heard the soft, positively evil laughter of a certain owl as I dropped to my knees and reached for the first handful of mangy, soaked feathers.

* * *

_**T**_here is something about having your every action monitored by a bird that puts you on edge. And I mean every action. Yep, he watched everything. All throughout that long day, his eyes never strayed from me. Not when I picked through my bookshelves for an alternative to The Labyrinth. Or when I surfed the Internet for another copy of said book, only to find that according to the Web––as I'd somehow always suspected––it might as well have never existed. When sheer boredom lulled me to an impromptu five minute nap. Or when I tied a dozen old shirts that I'd long outgrown into a makeshift rope and stowed it in a convenient spot near the window…just in case. Or when I deliberately pressed a pillow to each ear to block out the sounds of three seven-year-olds doing who-knows-what in perfect synchronization with my fiery-haired stepmother shrieking at them to cease and desist.

Jareth was not content to merely watch, however, though that alone was nearly enough to make me lose it. He seemed to enjoy listening to himself speak, and he seized every chance there was to engage in his favorite hobby. Accordingly, he sprinkled my uneventful day with an unnecessary comment here, a patronizing remark there.

But despite the constant stream of very human words pouring out his mouth, I kept expecting Jareth to act like an owl, which––wait for it––he didn't. While preparing a bowl of cereal for myself, I sarcastically asked Jareth if he'd like a mouse for breakfast. The conceit that perpetually clung to him like an extra appendage vanished for a minute in the face of sudden disgust. If he weren't already white––well, _whitish_––I suspected his face would have paled in repugnance. The shock was gone before I had time to delight in it, however, and he demanded a serving of cereal as well, minus the milk.

Owl he might be, but he certainly didn't eat like one. Or sleep like that one for that matter. Unfortunately.

Pulling my hair into a high ponytail that night, I moved toward my bed, all too aware of a certain someone's gaze following me. Dread was gnawing at the back of mind; after a day––a long, _long_ day––with Jareth, I was beginning to anticipate his next moves. To test my suspicion, I sat on my bed.

He immediately made as if to hop onto my bed beside me.

My voice was low, but I managed to keep it above a growl. "Aren't owls nocturnal?"

"Many are, yes."

"Aren't you?"

"Aren't I what?"

"Nocturnal."

He cocked his head to one side. "Do you want me to be?"

"_Yes_." _Then I wouldn't have to worry about you bugging me all stinking day long… Though being stared at while I try to sleep wouldn't be too much fun either…  
_

"Then I most certainly am not."

I huffed. "Just out of curiosity, if I'd said 'No,' what would your answer have been?"

"The same, more or less. I may be an owl, but I slumber at night. Surely you've noticed that I've been awake the entire day."

_How couldn't I have?_ "Yippee," I said flatly.

"Your enthusiasm is much appreciated."

"As is your sarcasm."

"And yours."

I could feel another scathing retort form in my throat, but I swallowed it before it could reach my tongue. Something told me that if caution was not exercised, Jareth and I could easily become locked in a battle of forever seeking to one-up each other. I couldn't spend the rest of the year arguing with Jareth over every little thing; unless I wanted to lose my voice, and sanity, I'd have to choose my battles. "All right, Feather Head, you can sleep here."

He promptly settled himself on my pillow.

I wanted to think he looked ridiculous and completely out of place on my clean bed, but in reality he couldn't have looked more at home or, _darn_ him, adorable. My inner five-year-old was yearning to squeal. Before the sinfully cute Jareth could spot the softness creeping unbidden into my eyes, I tugged on the coverlet, pulling both it and its occupant onto the floor.

"It's either the _edge_ of the bed or the floor, _friend_," I said pleasantly, simpering down at him.

Untangling himself from the twisted bedspread, Jareth swiftly moved aside, then settled himself onto the edge of the blanket once I replaced it on the mattress. It wasn't silent defeat that flared in his eyes, or even triumph, though, as I climbed into bed, making a point to lie down as far from him as possible. I couldn't tell quite what it was, actually. He didn't speak again, though I felt sure that if he had, he would've said something along the lines of "You win this round. The next one's mine."

Laying my head on the pillow, I wondered what bothered me more: that there would be future rounds, or that some deviant part of me looked forward to them.

* * *

_**I**_ woke the next morning with the nagging feeling that I'd remembered something in my sleep, only to forget it with wakefulness. The realization had me bolting upright in bed and jutting my legs out. My feet made contact with something small and light. And the silence was shattered by the drowsy cry of a very surprised, very _annoyed_ barn owl. Crawling to the end of my bed on hands and knees, I peered over the edge. A mess of feathers and filth was sprawled on the carpet.

"Oops…sorry."

"Oh, I'm sure you _are,"_ Jareth responded haughtily. "Is this a habit of yours?"

"What? Kicking irritating birds off my bed? No. Though given proper encouragement, it could become a habit." I tucked a strand of my dark, disheveled hair behind one ear. "I just remembered something…and then forgot it before I realized I'd remembered it."

"Fascinating. Do go on."

I shook my head but held my tongue. _Note to self: Don't wake up creepy talking bird––especially not with a kick. His arrogant sarcasm seems to have an increase of epic proportions when he's tired._

Jareth's drowsy gaze was fixed on my face, his unusual eyes blinking slowly as if to emphasize the fact that I wasn't yet forgiven.

"Ugh, stop it!" I said. "I can't remember when you're staring at me like that!"

Murmuring something under his breath––again––Jareth flew to my vanity, directing his stare at my Elven man figurine. He seemed to have an odd sort of interest in that particular trinket.

I stood and began making my bed, waiting for the memories to resurface. They took their sweet old time, but they did eventually make their appearance.

_Next week. School. First day._ My brain recalled the memories in reverse order, then rearranged them. My first day of the twelfth grade was in seven days, an event in which a certain hanger-on would no doubt insist––by force––on participating.

I was on my feet before my mind had finished reaching its resolve. I might not be able to push Jareth out a window or door, but there had to be _something_ I could do. _There are always exceptions._ A fact upon which the silly bird and I actually, wonder of wonders, agreed. There was no way I was taking my "friend" along with me to high school. "Mischief" and "chaos" were stamped like birthmarks across Jareth's face, and unleashing that on Hinsen High was as good as signing my own death warrant.

No, that definitely wasn't happening. Which meant I had exactly one week to find a way out of this agreement.

_I'm losing the owl._

"Jareth," I called.

"Hmm?"

"How would you like to go to the…zoo…today?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sarah just doesn't give up, does she? :P Not the most eventful chapter, but I wanted to get some of the mundane stuff out of the way. Brownie points to whoever caught the _Inception_ reference. Please feel free to offer constructive criticism; I'd really appreciate it.

Ugh, I am so bad at coming up with chapter titles. And about the name of Sarah's high school…yep, totally made it up (and kinda based it on "Henson").

Hee hee, I'm happy 'cause I got to use the word "fortnight." I've been wanting to do that forever…


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